Dear Shelly,

My Dearest Shelly,

It’s strange to think that I didn’t notice you at first.

You were just a small glisten on a leaf in my grandmother’s overgrown garden, a tiny spiral in the corner of my eye as I sat on the crumbling stone bench, nursing a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. It had been a hard week. The kind where everything feels too loud, and even my own skin seemed tired of me.

Then you appeared.

You moved so slowly, so deliberately, as if you had nothing to prove to the world—not speed, not size, not ambition. You simply existed, exquisitely, and that was enough. I watched you for what must have been hours. You didn’t notice me, or maybe you did, in your quiet, ancient way. But that day, something in me shifted.

I started coming back to that bench. Not to think, not to fix anything—just to be near you. You never asked for my time, but you accepted it. And in return, you gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long while: stillness. Peace. The unhurried thrum of a heart remembering how to beat softly again.

You became a part of my life, Shelly. My late afternoon confidant. My twilight companion. I began to whisper secrets into the garden air, secrets I knew you'd keep tucked safe beneath your shell. I told you about the days I wanted to disappear, and you reminded me—without words—that vanishing can be beautiful, too, as long as you leave a trail behind.

And now, here I am, writing to you like a fool, hoping that somehow these words will find their way to wherever you are tonight. Maybe under the rhododendron. Maybe on the porch step, misted in moonlight. Maybe somewhere far away, adventuring across a moss-covered log like the brave little explorer you are.

I miss you, Shelly. More than I thought I could miss something so small. But it’s not your size that matters—it’s your presence. And you filled my world so gently, so completely, I didn’t realize how much space you took in my heart until you were gone.

I hope you think of me sometimes, when the leaves are soft and the rain feels like music. I hope you know that you were loved—not in a grand, operatic way, but in the quiet, persistent way that only truly matters.

Still yours,

Still watching the garden,

M.B.